OLD FOLKS AT HOME - Part 3

I must apologize for being so late continuing this story but the Alzheimer Gal has been having some lung trouble and had to spend a few days in the hospital. I was also at a sort of crossroads in the story and couldn't decide where I was going. I usually create the characters and then let them create the story but it seems Maybell was asleep. At any rate, here is the continuation. I hope you find it enjoyable.
If you haven't already done so please read the first parts of this story before reading this.
Old Folks at Home - Part 3


OLD FOLKS AT HOME - Part 3
The day room is buzzing with groups sitting in every corner trying to figure out what The Pole meant. I asked him once if he knew what they meant himself or if the words just came to him but he just smiled that sad smile of his. I've often wondered about that.
I don't join any of the groups. I like to sort of wander around and listen in. It leaves me a lot more options. Over by the French doors one group thinks it has something to do with a game. Someone suggests solitaire but that's just silly. If he had said,"Red on black", it might have worked but who ever saw a deck of cards with the suits in red and green? Miss Thompkins, who we call The Flower Child (she never married, poor thing) suggests Monopoly but she's a little vague at times. Alzheimers, you know.
They don't seem to be getting anywhere so I wander over to the group near the coffee and cookies table. Old Annie is sure he was talking about a traffic light which at least makes sense but I hardly think Sergeant Cho was here to discuss a traffic accident.
I notice The Artist is sitting by herself furiously scribbling on her sketch pad. Oh, didn't I tell you about her? Well she wears these black leotards with a paint spattered smock over them, which is rather peculiar since I've never seen her painting. She carries her sketch pad and charcoal sticks everywhere she goes and her hands are always soiled. She is - well - a bit on the chubby side, to be charitable. She has this stringy black hair (dyed I'm sure) that looks as though it had never seen a hair brush or been washed. On top of it there is a black beret that has seen better days. There is no offensive odor about her so I suspect she bathes in secret and then works hard to appear unbathed. She is supposed to be very tallented but she drew my portrait once (she draws everyone) and it didn't look like me at all. Would you believe she made me appear old with a crepey neck? Mister Truman agreed it didn't do me justice.
I look over her shoulder and see that she is furiously sketching a very hard looking man. I quickly step away and supress a girlish giggle when I recognize him. I hardly think John Dillinger has anything to do with the case in hand.
The Major has his own usual followers and they are seated in a group below the TV set. Perfectly alligned of course. No circles for the Major. Everything must be in straight lines. He has his own chalkboard which he drags out at times like this and it is filled with words and phrases all connected by arrows pointing every which way. He is standing in front of it with his silly pointer lecturing on how it all fits together but he doesn't really seem to be coming to any conclusions.
I sense Mister Truman looking at me and fold my fan to indicate that he has my attention. For a Yankee, well sort of a Yankee (he is from Kansas) he is quite well versed in the language of the fan. He has come to invite me for a stroll in the garden. As we step outside the French doors I shift my fan to my left hand to indicate that he may take my hand if he wishes.
It really isn't much of a garden by Atlanta standards. Just some geraniums and annuals like marigolds and petunias transplanted out of flats, but one must make do at times.
It should have been quite peacefull and perhaps romantic but unfortunately The Highlander is there playing his bagpipes. I don't really mind the pipes. They are quite stirring at times but they are hardly the proper instrument for playing, "Roll Out the Barrell" which he is industriously, if somewhat wheezily, pumping out at present. As usual he is dressed in kilts. He tries very hard for a Scots burr in his speech but there is a bit too much Brooklyn in it for it to sound authentic.
To be continued

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